


Regrets Like Old Friends

by luctoretemergo



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Multi, Past Character Death, Slow Build, angry adventures of a reborn revolutionary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:19:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luctoretemergo/pseuds/luctoretemergo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wakes up not with a whimper, but a bang, all at once and almost violently. </p><p>Enjolras suddenly remembers everything from his life in France circa 1832. Struck by how much he failed and how little he's done so far in his new life he sets out to correct his past mistakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waking Up

He wakes up not with a whimper, but a bang, all at once and almost violently. 

Enjolras doesn’t know what triggers it, maybe it’s the song playing in the bookstore or a title that he glances over while searching for whatever book he game in for. But whatever it is pushes him to his knees with the sheer agony of his mind being ripped apart and put back together again with new memories that burn with their passion, intensity and sadness. 

By the time he comes to people have gathered around him, whispering amongst themselves and talking to him all at once. An older woman, her greying hair stares at him with concern. “Young men are you alright? Did you hit your head?” She questioned, reaching out as if to touch him.

“I’m, I’m fine. I just got light headed.” Enjolras stammers our, having to resist using a speech pattern that hadn’t been used in over a hundred and fifty years. 

He staggers to his feet a moment later, the books that had once been in his arms spread in the floor around him and utterly forgotten. He doesn’t have time to buy books, or deal with people’s concerns. No, he needs to figure out what to do with memories of a failed riot, a monarchy that continued and the death of every single person that he held dear. 

It takes only a few minutes for him to stumble out of the bookstore, gasping lungful after lungful of clean air as he leans against the brick building. His mind is a mess of 1832 and 2013 and everything in between that he lived and learned. And all Enjolras can do is try to breath so he doesn’t fall down again, and once he’s caught his breath and calmed his mind something happens. 

Then he gets very, very angry. 

He failed, plain and simple. His rebellion – his revolution, or can he even call it that? – failed so horribly that France and the rest of Europe was in utter chaos for years after. Even now can’t be claimed at being all that much better for all the so-called progress the world had made. 

The heavy weight of failure slumps his shoulders and makes the anger in his chest burn white-hot as he realizes just how much good he could have done if he hadn’t messed up. But he messed up in the worst possible way on the most important event of his life.

His friends would have lived, maybe not for very much longer but they would have at least had a chance at lives that would have done so much good. Maybe France would have been stronger, to stand against war, famine, death and genocide. Who knows what could have happened if his childish attempts are revolution – and he knows that they are childish now with all the power of hindsight and history behind him – had actually done more than sacrifice too many young lives. 

For a moment he is struck with just how little he’s done in his life this time around. He’s twenty-one years one, younger than when he died last time – and that is a chilling thought that makes him wonder how long he has left here, if he is destined to die at the same age – and has barely done anything more than sign a few things and attend the local LGBTQ+ meetings. He’s sickened with just how complacent he’s been. 

But Enjolras realizes that he has time to change, both himself and the world at large. He is still young and healthy, and that’s all that really matters when it comes down to it. At this point he can still make a difference using the experience of his failed rebellion and the knowledge from years spent studying history. Maybe he had just been preparing for this moment all along without even knowing it. 

His blood was starting to roar in his ears as he thinks of all he can do. Start another group, maybe on campus or with the local queer community. Both would work, maybe both. The idea makes a grin stretch across his face, it is almost manic in appearance as he focuses on what he can do, because he can do so much that he couldn’t before. 

The anger doesn’t fade right away, the anger will likely never really fade. Not with the weight of his ultimate failure forever looming over him. Not until he has righted his wrongs and avenged his friend’s pointless deaths – the deaths he led them to – would he ever not feel that white-hot anger searing through his veins. 

The memory of his friends makes him jerk forward with a sudden desire to go to them, but he can’t, or can he?

There is a chance that if he has his memories stored away in the back of his mind that the other’s might as well. Enjolras can’t help but feel hopeful at the prospect. He believes he can do this on his own, or with new people willing to head what he has to say. But there is something desirable about having the same men who followed him into death following him into victory. 

Without any idea of where he was going Enjolras just starts walking, turning corners and chasing taillights of cars. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but he knows who he’s looking for, and that’s all he needs for now.


	2. The Search Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Internet searches can be both frustrating and fruitful and Enjolras starts his quest to find his friends and change the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick heads up, as this story progresses the rating will go up due to language, violence and if I have this planned out right sex.
> 
> Also this chapter is about 1000x better thanks to Coshledak. She doesn't post Les Miserables stuff but her fics are amazing go read her stuff.

Enjolras walks for hours, looking into store windows and around vaguely familiar corners. Nothing suddenly sticks out to him as being important or more familiar than it had been before he got his past memories back.

Walking around just served to make Enjolras more frustrated than before. He still wasn’t doing anything, just wandering around aimlessly, likely with a distraught expression on his face his mouth curled into a grimace and his eyes searching faces frantically looking almost ready to cry.

There was no guarantee that any of his friends had their memories and even less of a guarantee that they would have gotten them back. Yet he was still wasting his precious time searching for them, unable to grasp the idea of doing anything important without them. 

The night comes quickly enough, and Enjolras finds himself defeated and walking back to his apartment. It is a medium-sized single bedroom place that suits his needs just fine and ironically reminds him a lot of the apartment he occupied in his newly gotten memories. Just with more modern amenities. 

He is exhausted by the onslaught of memories – which just keep pouring in; looking at his desk makes him remember nights spent tirelessly writing pamphlets and speeches – and his impromptu walk through the city afterwards. But the frustration trumps his body’s desire to sleep and Enjolras finds himself pacing the length of his living room, his jaw tense as he tries to figure out what his next move is. He can’t just wander around the city forever. 

There was yet another problem; his friends might not even be in the city if they existed at all. Paris was a likely place for them, but then again, reincarnation wasn’t something Enjolras had believed to be real until he got his memories back, so it was obviously a very fickle thing.

He dragged his fingers through the thick, loose curls that hung unrestrained around his shoulders, clenching his fingers uselessly in his hair the gesture painful where it tugged at the roots. Right now he needed a plan, but his head was pounding and the only logical choice was to go to sleep.

Logical but not what he decides to do. Enjolras instead settles at his desk – messy, always messy no matter whom he was – and opens his laptop to start searching for his friend’s names. Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly, Jehan, each and every person that he could think of. 

But despite them having unusual names, even for Paris, there were hundreds of thousands of results that came up. None of them were conclusive. There was a boxer named Bahorel that came up, but they listed him from Afghanistan and even if that was _his_ Bahorel there was no way to contact him. 

He finds himself searching hardest for Combeferre and Courfeyrac, but neither gave him any solid results. And he could only search through so many Facebook pages before his eyes started to ache and he needed to dim his computer screen and possible just stop. The lack of results was heartbreaking at best. And steadily starting to piss him off.

Enjolras was going to give up, shut his computer and go to bed. But he had one person he had yet to search, someone who he hadn’t thought much about. 

Grantaire had been the person he spent his last living moments with, was the last person he touched. The warmth of the man’s hand lingered on his palm even now, and he clenched it tightly over the keyboard before relaxing his fingers and typing in the man’s name. 

He expected to find nothing, or something vague like he had with a few people. But the first result talked about an Olympic class fencer who lived in Paris under the name Grantaire. Enjolras snorted at the idea of Grantaire being that person, but he couldn’t help but click the image tab out of pure curiosity. 

A familiar face stared back at him from the screen. The man’s skin was slightly healthier looking, his hair still wild curls and his eyes a tremulous grey-blue like the sea during a storm. 

Enjolras’ breath caught in his throat, coming out almost as a sob when he needed to breathe again. He wasn’t alone; there was someone else out there. Whether or not Grantaire remembered was irrelevant, Enjolras planned on going and finding the man regardless. Grantaire was his first chance and he wasn’t going to miss it, not with the stroke of luck of Grantaire living in Paris. 

Despite being exhausted physically and mentally Enjolras continued to research Grantaire. He found the complex where he trained, pictures, videos and news articles about the man, ones he might have even read before which was painfully ironic. Only once he had found everything out that he could and made plans to find the complex the man trained at the next day did Enjolras practically fall into bed. 

While he slept he dreamed, of gunshots, cries of pain and anguish and the only hand that he had ever held. 

Enjolras woke up with a start, his phone chiming an alarm. For a moment he was struck with the horror that he might have a class or six to attend. But the stifling heat of his apartment and a quick shake of his head reminded him he had only just finished up his summer exams. His mind was still a violent jumble of thoughts and memories he hadn’t known until barely twelve hours before. 

Today he has a mission though, so Enjolras is quick when showering and dressing that morning, barely drying his skin before pulling on his jeans. His hair goes into a curling ponytail behind his head, the style feeling familiar and right, likely because his memories reveal a familiar style from before. 

He leaves his apartment with his backpack stuffed with both his laptop and a notebook, Enjolras feels vaguely like a stalker as he makes his way towards the address of the fencing club that Grantaire supposedly practices as. He has no idea if the other man will even be there, but he feels that he needs to at least try. 

That is why one forty minute busy ride and fifteen minutes of getting lost later he ends up in front of the complex he needs to be at. 

They advertise, of course, their Olympic class fencing student, and Enjolras is treated with another picture of Grantaire’s face. Small things are changed, such as Grantaire having more stubble than he’s used to and his hair shorter in the picture, but he is, without a doubt, Grantaire. 

The thrill of knowing that one of his old friends is inside prompts him to walk straight into the door and towards the front desk. A man about his age with a sleeveless shirt perks up from behind the desk. “Hey, can I help you?” 

Enjolras’ voice is briefly gone as he searches for the words to explain his situation. Except there were none, so he lied to the best of his ability. “I’ve been looking for something to do this summer; I have a lot of free time and saw that you guys trained an amazing fencer. So I was wondering about signing up for fencing classes.” Once he’s finished speaking Enjolras waits with bated breath to see what the other man’s response might be.

He doesn’t expect the laugh, or wide smile. “Well you wouldn’t be the first. We do have a few spots open in our beginner classes. But you’ll need to buy your own gear.” Then the receptionist launches into an explanation that goes right in one ear and out the other, but Enjolras manages to nod in all the right places. 

Deciding that this conversation is going nowhere Enjolras decides to interrupt, frustrated by the lack of progress. “Could I have a tour of the place? I’ll happily sign up for the classes but I’d like to get a look at it all.” And hopefully a look at Grantaire if he was lucky. He isn’t naïve enough to think just seeing each other will wake the man up, but he can hope. 

Puzzled the receptionist nods. “Of course. But try not to disturb R, he gets into a zone.” The man explains before leading a well-practiced tour that Enjolras doesn’t pay any attention to. At least not until they stopped on the edge of a practice room where two masked figures are parrying vicious blows at one another and he gets a thrill of hope. 

The receptionist leans in closer to Enjolras, a smile in his voice. “The one furthest from us is Grantaire. You are lucky, you get a little show.”

Enjolras is utterly transfixed as he looks at Grantaire. Transfixed by both the fact that this is _Grantaire_ in front of him alive and well, and because the man moves beautifully. His blows and parries are graceful and deadly looking, and Enjolras is utterly delighted. He had always had so much hope for Grantaire’s skills, and while he had assumed the man would be skilled in a more academic sense this is no less impressive. 

He can’t help but wonder about all of the things he didn’t know about Grantaire before. The man had always been a drunkard simply wasting his own potential in his eyes. Maybe he had been more, and Enjolras had simply been too blind to see it. Thinking like that was depressing, but also had him feeling more determined to do things right this time. 

That included treating Grantaire - who had lived and died for him - much better than he had before. 

The receptionist tries to get him to move along after a few minutes, but Enjolras’ feet are firmly planted, he has no desire to move until he’s seen the face of the man he knew. 

He ends up waiting for at least fifteen minutes before sparring pair part and then pull off their helmets, laughing good naturedly. Enjolras is treated to the sight of Grantaire’s sweat soaked head and bright-eyed look. The man's gaze then proceeds to land on him and make his stomach clench in violent anxiety. The anger and desire to gather his friends is momentarily halted with the memory of being the one who got everyone killed and then the guilt. 

“Who is this?” Grantaire’s voice is nearly identically compared to his memories. Rough from his less polite activities yet gentle all the same, sounding amused and open as he strides over to the edge of the mat. His eyes are still bright when Enjolras meets them, but not from laughter, the gaze feels heavier than that.

Enjolras can’t move or breathe for a moment, his fingers flexing uselessly around the strap of his bag as he tries to call upon the words that he knows he has. “Enjolras. My name is Enjolras.” The pause between the question and answer was pregnant and long enough to make Enjolras feel the crushing weight of its awkwardness. 

“Enjolras, it’s a nice name. If you had taken any longer to answer me though, I would have made one up for myself.” A cheeky grin spreads across Grantaire’s face, and while the expression looks different to Enjolras because the man is flushed from exertion and not drink. The man before him is not the exact same person from before but he is still comforting. 

He rolls his eyes at Grantaire, a very natural response to things that the other man might say to him. But then Enjolras catches the other man’s gaze one more, snapped from his stupor finally, and feels an embarrassing curl of heat from it. 

The receptionist, who had been blessedly silent during the exchange, steps in during that particular bout of silence. “Enjolras here is interested in fencing actually, I’m sure meeting you helped push along his decision.” 

Enjolras is amused by just how right the receptionist was. 

He had his doubts before meeting Grantaire, that this might not actually be the man; they could just share a face. But it is more than that, their voices, speech pattern, even the way the other man walked was so distinctly Grantaire that Enjolras had to resist the urge to embrace him. 

“Is that so? Well, Apollo, have you decided to join our humble gym and learn the art of fencing?” Grantaire’s grin probably couldn’t get much wider as he crossed his arms, his hip cocking out as he gave Enjolras a very blatant once over. 

He doesn’t know how to handle the staring – being oogled and flirted with had never been something that Enjolras handled well, and that wasn’t about to change – so instead he presses on to answer the question. “I have. Are you one of the teachers?” He realizes only after he says it that the words might be taken flirtatiously and his jaw clenches at the delight in Grantaire’s eyes. 

“Generally no, but for you? I’ll make the time to teach.” Grantaire is obviously earnest with his desire to teach him, and Enjolras isn’t sure if he’s uncomfortable or grateful for that. If anything, it would give him time alone to see if the man remembered anything, or could one day.

“Thank you…I think.” The last thing Enjolras wants to do is encourage the flirting. Grantaire might be handsome but he has things to do that are far more important than the tedium of relationships. Even if the nagging reminder that he can’t accomplish anything without his friends reminding him that he is not above _all_ relationships. 

After that it is extremely simple to sign up for the classes that Grantaire isn’t technically teaching, but still teaching all the same. Enjolras protests when he’s told he doesn’t have to buy any equipment – even though that’s a minor relief, he doesn’t really care to learn to fence – but a small membership fee. But he doesn’t get much say because Grantaire has the obvious upper hand in this situation. 

Just as he’s about to leave Enjolras sees Grantaire’s eyes widen and the man lurch across the receptionist desk to grab his arm. “Wait.” He cries out, and Enjolras is stunned into stopping and staring at the man as though he’s grown another head. For a brief moment he hopes that this is Grantaire suddenly remembering everything and his breath catches in his throat. 

“Can I have your number?” 

Enjolras can’t even describe the disappointment and confusion that he feels, and the other man seems to notice that. “So we can set up appointments. I’d ask for your e-mail but phone calls are easier.” He amends, an almost sheepish smile crossing his lips. 

Still wary, Enjolras nods and tugs the hand off of his arm, picking up a pen with his free hand. Scribbling his name and number on the palm of the other man’s hand he drops both the pen and the hand unceremoniously. “You can only call me to set up appointments, alright?” His voice is more an order than a request, and Grantaire nods. 

“Scout’s honor!” His fingers form a solute that Enjolras is extremely sure is nothing like what an actual scout would do. But instead of correcting it he lets out a long suffering sigh and walks towards the exit. “See you soon, Apollo!” Grantaire’s voice is loud and jovial in the space and Enjolras’ shoulders hunch forward as he hurries out of the complex.

Despite his distaste towards the other man’s more flirty practices, he’s still overjoyed to have found Grantaire. Not the ideal person to find first but still someone he could come to trust all the same. 

Enjolras feels his phone buzz in his pocket and takes it out without thinking. When he sees that the message is from an unknown number he knows right away who it actually is, but opens it all the same. 

Before he gets a chance to read it, Enjolras collides into another person, dropping his phone and nearly losing his balance. “Shit, sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.” He apologizes as the other man’s hands settle on his shoulders to steady him. That makes Enjolras looked up – the person is a great deal taller than him, which is surprising he isn’t exactly short – and his vision zeroes in on the familiar face staring back.


End file.
